One Time at Band Camp
by The Original Amy
Summary: Rachel Morgan must leave behind all that is hip when she is unjustly forced to go to band camp. Will she be able to survive the heat, the insanity, and most of all, the moldy showers?


Disclaimer: I don't own Gilmore Girls, VH1, MTV, the SC Opera Company, SCSU, Footloose, The Brady Bunch, or Buckingham Palace. I do, however, own the characters, Mr. Chinn's Chinese Take-Out, and the yoga ball. Please review!

* * *

I'm just weeks away from my high school debut, and my life is already over.

That's right: OVER.

I mean, it all started out normal enough. I'm just sitting on the couch finishing off my cold orange chicken one night, idly watching VH1 and contemplating whether my mother would let me get my ears double-pierced, when I hear a car pull into the garage and the woman in question walks in.

But that is not why my life is over.

Actually, she doesn't really walk in, she kind of floats in, because she's wearing this long, flowing dress with black sequins all over it—typical attire for a dress rehearsal at the South Carolina Opera Company. Opera doesn't pay enough to be considered a "real job"—my mom works for a bank during the day. She says opera is just her "outlet."

But that is not why my life is over either.

My mom and I chat briefly about her rehearsal, and I remember to mute the TV. Her eyes look all big and animated because of the stage makeup she's wearing, which is beginning to rub off. I'm about to bring up the double-piercing thing, when I notice that she's tilting her head back and forth, back and forth, like she's cooking up something in her mind. I wonder if she's about to go all Gilmore Girls on me and suggest we pop Footloose into the VCR and munch on pistachio nuts or something. But then she drops the bomb on me.

"Rae, what do you think about joining marching band in high school?"

THAT IS WHY MY LIFE IS OVER.

Um, where did this come from? I pull my feet into the Indian style position as images of hideous uniforms and marching around in straight lines flash through my mind. I mean, sure, I played the clarinet in Jr. high, but _everyone_ was in band in Jr. high. This is high school! A fresh chance to establish my social rank among my peers! Joining the school band does not exactly shout 'cool!'

"Well," I say as calmly as possible, "I actually hadn't thought about it at all."

"I think you should try it." Just like that. She 'thinks I should try it.' And what exactly is that supposed to mean? Is she giving me a choice in the matter or not? However, I can tell that this is not quite The Final Word on the subject. Not yet.

Having known my mother for my entire life, I am able to sense that this is probably just one of those whims she gets hold of every so often. Like the time she got all excited about signing us both up for yoga classes. _That_ idea petered out pretty quickly. We still have the yoga ball upstairs somewhere, though.

"They have band camp next week," she goes on. "I got some brochures. Look."

Brochures! She has _brochures_! The only brochure-like items my mother will touch are things like Mr. Chinn's take-out menu! And now here she is, casually handing me this glossy folded paper like she's Mrs. Brady or something!

I'm standing now, as if preparing to battle this woman who is acting so unlike the mom I know.

Then I remember how I got out of yoga classes. I just calmly explained to her that I really, really was just not into the whole bendy-pretzel thing. And she understood. I mean, my mother is not an unreasonable person. A little left of center, maybe. But it wasn't like her to force me into obscure extracurricular activities.

So I say to her, "Mom. I really, really am not into the idea of being in the marching band," and hope that is enough.

"Rachel, you're so good at the clarinet. You can't just give it up. Listen, band camp only lasts a week. Just try it for one week."

Suddenly I realize she's serious about this marching band thing. I can tell this isn't going to be just another yoga ball collecting dust in the attic.

To test the waters, I say, "Mom, are you actually saying that you're making me go to _band camp_?" I try to sound dramatic in hopes that she'll see the great wrong she has done me and change her mind.

"That's what I'm saying."

No such luck.

"I'm not going," I say desperately.

"You're going. It'll be fun!"

_It'll be fun_. I teeter for a few moments, then let myself fall into the beanbag chair behind me, just one of the many unconventialities featured in our living room. I cross my arms and heave a great sigh. "I don't believe this! How could you do this to me? Are you trying to destroy my social life?"

Some small part of me is able to step back and see how immature I'm being, and that part of me wants to discuss this calmly and rationally. I mean, my mom and I have always gotten along reasonably well. After all, we're the only family either of us has, since my dad died when I was a baby. Sure, we're no Rory and Lorelai, but we're mostly pleasant to each other. Now I'm resisting her, a new thing for me, and I can't seem to stop.

"Mom, can't I--"

"I've already signed you up. The bus leaves Monday morning. They're expecting you." She flounces off, and I know that this is The Final Word.

I blink several times. She's already signed me up? They're expecting me? My lips try to form some words but nothing comes out. I feel like I've been hurled into some freakishly reversed version of MTV's _Made_.

It's all too much. At age fourteen-and-a-half, I don't have the capacity to deal with starring in an episode of Rachel vs. the Band Geeks. Not knowing what else to do, I chew angrily on a purple painted nail, hot tears burning my eyes.

* * *

"...and she's making me go to band camp!" I whine into the phone after my mother has finally retreated upstairs, probably to go burn incense and de-stress. After all, singing opera all night and then coming home and violating your daughter's Freedom to Pursue Happiness can be very taxing.

"Seriously? _Band camp_?" I hear Mandy start to snicker on the other end, then catch herself.

"I know, right? I mean, what is this, American Pie?"

Mandy is the co-captain of the volleyball team at Westmont High. When I joined the team two months ago, Mandy decided I was her new best friend. I couldn't believe my luck—I had already started to carve out my high school niche! I mean, in Jr. high I was just Rachel Morgan, another face in the yearbook. But now I'm going to be Rachel Morgan, best friend of the co-captain of the volleyball team, who might soon have her ears double-pierced, even!

But no more.

Nope, all of that is being compromised because my mother has somehow gotten it in her head that marching band is the root of all goodness in this world. _Marching band_, of all things! Now, for the rest of my high school career, which might as well be the rest of my life, I will be Rachel Morgan, the band geek.

Great. Just great.

"Where is it, anyway?" Mandy wants to know.

"Where's what?" I say absently. I still can't shake the thought of tall fuzzy hats and shoulder tassels, all Buckingham-Palace-like.

"The buffet line. Duh, band camp."

"Oh." For the first time I glance down at the brochure my mom left. On the front in chunky lettering it reads, "COME TO WESTMONT HIGH SCHOOL BAND CAMP ON THE CAMPUS OF SOUTH CAROLINA STATE UNIVERSITY!"

"SC State," I say, as if the grounds of SC State are the very gates of hell.

I hug a pillow to my chest and continue discussing the situation with Mandy who, to her credit, is very sympathetic toward the great injustice that is my life. Even though I'm sure nothing so horrid as _band camp_ has ever happened to _her_, tall and blonde and perfect as she is, but still, I appreciate the gesture.

And, as predicted, I begin to smell Calming Lilac wafting down the stairs from my mother's bedroom.


End file.
